


The Longest Con

by wyntirrose



Series: Trials and Blessings [9]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 04:58:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2638916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntirrose/pseuds/wyntirrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smokescreen has finally decided to get off the streets and join the Autobots, even if it means changing everything about himself to manage it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Longest Con

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat follows Life's Lessons, Regrets, and Bad Day. The gist of the back story is this: Smokescreen was originally a maintenance bot in the Towers before they were destroyed. He was then taken in by a group of Neutrals led by Argent (a Megatron in training basically), and he eventually betrayed them in order to save Wheeljack and Ratchet. I never wrote a linking fic showing exactly how this mech joined the Autobots and became the "shrink" we all know and love. This is my attempt to rectify this.

“Name and function?” the bored guard asked me, never bothering to actually look up from his data pad.

“Smokescreen,” I replied, making sure that I sounded small, insignificant, and nervous. “I’m a psychologist and I dabble in diversionary tactics. Is this where we’re supposed to-”

I never managed to finish my sentence. Just as I as predicted, the guard just wanted me gone so he could get to the next name on the list. “Wait in the hall with the others. Someone will call you in for an interview.”

I fought back the urge to smile as I moved past the gatekeeper and found a secluded place along a back wall where I could take in all the other mechs and the room we were in.

The hall was filled with various Neutrals of every make and model, and already they were forming into cliques. There was a very small group of Nobles of to the side, pretending that they weren’t standing shoulder to shoulder with the unwashed masses. An even smaller group of Praxians were near them, their doors fluttering nervously in silent conversation. That particular habit was one that I had unlearned very quickly. After all, Seekers spoke that same wing code and revealing yourself to the enemy was about the dumbest thing possible. A single racer stood off to the side, ignoring everyone and yet still managing to look like he was surrounded by the lights of the paparazzi. Mini-bots of every description imaginable hovered at the edges of the room, clearly hoping to avoid getting stepped on. And at the centre of the space stood the largest of the large. These mechs were miners, dock workers, and gladiators, and they all towered over every mech in the room, and each of them likely outweighed everyone by several tonnes. Collectively.

These were the mechs that I should have been sidling up to. Making friends with one of them would ensure that I would have someone watching my back and acting as a walking shield if needed. And if I had to pay for that friendship, then so be it. I had made certain modifications to my frame to allow for all sorts of possibilities. Sadly they seemed to have an invisible bubble around them, and none of the smaller mechs seemed willing to cross the socially created barrier just yet. Due to my own particular circumstances I wasn’t about to draw attention to myself by being the first to step forward. Let someone else take the risk and I would happily pick up the pieces afterwards.

I turned my attention away from the middle of the room and toward the walls. They were polished to a high gloss and they reflected everything inside. I took the opportunity to look myself over one last time before I was called in for my interview. There wasn’t anything that I could change at this late a time, but I preferred being sure of everything.

The old Smokescreen was still there under the new additions. My old form was vaguely Praxian in build, so I just had to add a little here and there to fill out the look. I wasn’t quite a proper Praxian, even after the surgeries. My doors were still a tad too short, my chest a bit too flat, my aft and waist a touch too hefty, but I had provided an excuse for that. Instead of the light, sleek alt-mode most Praxians favoured, I had chosen a heavier off-road racing model that was rare but not unheard of. It wasn’t as if I had an alt-mode before the surgeries. After all, what use does a glorified janitor have with an alt-mode? Even if I had had use for one, my Praxian mentor hadn't been able to afford one anyway, not when he was barely scraping by as a cleaner in the Towers.

I took one last look at my new colours -- a richer shade of burgundy and royal blue as opposed to the softer, paler red and blue I used to sport. With the addition of some white accents, a yellow chevron, and a pair of racing numbers on my doors, I looked to be a wholly new mech. Only someone who knew me well would recognize the old Smokescreen beneath the new looks. And I had been assured that the work was top notch enough fool all but the best of surgeons, and even those few would likely view the changes as a surgery of vanity. The adjustable ports and the secondary fuel tank would take some creative explaining, but I was sure that I could woo any medic to my way of thinking if push came to shove. And if worst came to worst, my new history said that I had been trapped in the destruction of The Institute and needed cosmetic surgery to repair some superficial damage, and I upgraded at the same time. I had a logical explanation for every change and every upgrade, neither of which involved cheating at drinking games and being paid for interfacing.

Yes, the con artist, thief, and occasional pleasure-bot was dead, and in his place was a newly minted graduate of The Institute's Psychological Program; one of the last graduates before the institution was bombed out of existence. I even had the paperwork and hacked background to prove it, so long as no one looked too close; and no one would. It was no secret that the Autobots were hurting for recruits, especially for support staff, and while they were picky about some things, they weren’t going to dismiss me just because I was untrained and totally unskilled. Both were traits expected from students. 

They would, however, kick me out if they learned of my criminal past. It was a rich sort of irony. Here were mechs who claimed that all beings were created equal and yet they were more than willing to piously toss aside those who didn’t fit with their moral preaching. I often wondered if their Prime had any idea just how many of his troops were down in the slums, drinking moonshine energon and paying for the services of the pleasure-bots. Looking around the room I could already pick out a handful of guards that I had personally serviced ... not that any of them would recognize me. It was a true rarity to find a patron who ever looked at the mech he was playing with, and none of these were that rare specimen.

I drew my thoughts away from the general hypocrisy of the Autobot army and back to the matter at hand. I needed to be accepted by these people. I had no plan B and no fall-back position. I had burned far too many bridges to look to the remaining Neutral gangs for support; after all, as far as they were concerned, I had sold my old gang out to the Decepticons. And speaking of, going to the 'Cons was completely out of the question. They were populated by psychotics and fanatics; there was no way that I would survive in their ranks. Not with my sanity intact. No, the Autobots were the only available choice. And I was mech enough to admit that I had one or two ulterior motives in my plan.

I hadn’t taken over the identity of a dead mech with this plan in place. I had just needed a place to hide and Taciturn had provided the perfect method. And it wasn’t even like I had been the one who had killed him – that had been the loan sharks that he owed when he had failed to pay back his debts and then had tried to talk himself out of the situation. It seems that he never grasped that criminals don’t like to be lectured to. All I did was fail to save his life as he was leaking out in a dark alley. Oh, I had tried, but I’m no medic and I don’t have the skills to repair a mech when he’s had both his arms ripped out of their sockets.

So serendipity and chance had worked in my favour and I was able to work my most involved con ever. The Autobots would provide me with the shelter I needed and if I was able to reconnect with some old friends, then all the better. Not that I had chosen the Autobots because of a certain Engineer, though I was mech enough to admit that I had chosen this base specifically because of Wheeljack. If my luck held, he would be over his ridiculous crush on the medic by now. After all, one could only be in that dubious friendship area for so long before you were forced to move on. And if he was still pining, then I was more than willing to be patient and bide my time. In the meantime, however, I still needed someone to latch onto.

I took a deep and cleansing breath through my vents and turned my attention back to the room. No one had yet taken the chance and approached the mechs in the centre of the room, so I decided to change my prey. A walking shield would have been very nice, but there were others who could help me just as well. The racer was out of the question, and while several of the minibots were cute they were completely inappropriate for my needs. That left the nobles or the Praxians. I wasn’t quite ready to approach my fellow Praxians just yet. After all, if anyone was going to sniff me out, it would be one of them. Besides, they all looked about as nervous as petrorabbits and I feared that they would bolt if I so much as said hello to them. So that left the nobles.

I took a few casual steps forward, moving among the other mechs with no obvious destination or motive in mind, all the while my optics were surveying the flock of nobles. It didn’t take long for one to jump out at me. Tall, slender, and elegant, and painted in a lovely shade of soft blue and white. I seriously doubted that Mirage would remember me, even without the makeover, but I certainly remembered him. I wasn’t called up to his apartments often, but when I was he always left an impression. There were few who were as arrogant, self-possessed, and controlling as this particular noble, and he was never about to treat an underling as anything other than a slave. Perhaps I was being unfair, but back before the towers fell he had treated me like rust one too many times for me to feel particularly charitable. No, a little payback was in order here. He would do just fine until I found another plaything. Or even better, until I found Wheeljack again.


End file.
